


bed, unmade

by mrsatterthwaite, neyvenger (jjjat3am)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Bathing/Washing, Character Study, Food Porn, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-19 01:41:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11303124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsatterthwaite/pseuds/mrsatterthwaite, https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/pseuds/neyvenger
Summary: “You know, I’m pretty tired,” Mario says, unexpectedly. “I think I’d like to go to bed if that’s okay with you?”There’s no hint of invitation in his voice, as he looks at Claudio expectantly.“Sure,” Claudio says, swallowing his confusion, “the guest room is all set up for you. I’ll show you where the towels are.”in which Mario drives a nice car, they eat a lot of delicious food, and Claudio tells the truth, for once





	bed, unmade

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to mrsatterthwaite, for being the biggest catalyst for the idea of this fic, for being a sounding board and for contributing chunks to this fic, and for contributing all of [the incredible art.](http://2pcb.tumblr.com/post/162844054985/bed-unmade-mrsatterthwaite-neyvenger) It wouldn't have been written without you and I think I really needed it to be written.  
> All my love to [Mercy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doubtthestars/pseuds/doubtthestars) for making this better, and to [Jo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vidriana/pseuds/Vidriana) for the encouragement. Thank you also to everyone who's listened to me ramble about this over the two years it's taken me to finally be able to write it. Your encouragement means the world.
> 
> This is loosely a sequel to [to the shining core](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4060648), though it functions well on its own.

 

 

The morning dawns bright and almost uncomfortably warm, grape wines wilting on gleaming marble arches as the sun rises high above mountain peaks. Turin wakes up into another hot summer day. Claudio watches it from where he’s leaned up against his balcony, searching for the shape of the Juventus stadium among all the rooftops.

 

He’s left his phone somewhere in the living room, text message open, but not replied to. It’s from Mario, telling him that he’s left his house in Brescia already. The trip will take over two hours, so Claudio still has some time to prepare.

 

After a moment, he retreats into the inviting coolness of his air-conditioned room, pulling the shutters over the glass doors. Not for the first time, he realizes he’s grateful for the thick walls and the bulky machine box of the air condition. It keeps him from the worst of the temperatures plaguing his countrymen, even if it looks ugly and out of place on the house’s facade.

 

He leaves the cup in his kitchen sink and walks away, only to double back and put it in the dishwasher instead, before continuing on to the guest room. There’s a daisy in a vase on the nightstand. He’d put it there yesterday, on a whim, but now it’s already wilting and he debates over throwing it out. Ultimately, he decides to leave it and goes to smooth the wrinkles on the comforter instead.

 

Honestly, he doesn’t know why he’s even doing it, because it’s not like Mario will notice. Claudio knows what it’s like - sleep in enough foreign hotel rooms and they all start to look the same. No reason Claudio’s guest room should be any different.

 

He runs over the ingredients list for dinner again. He’s missing a few, but that’s okay - the groceries delivery should be there in at 10am, on the dot. He appreciates their punctuality, even if he misses the days where he could go to a market in Turin and choose his own piece of fish without being recognized.

 

There’s tomato and cucumber salad in the fridge for lunch, paired with freshly baked bread from the bakery round the corner and fresh mozzarella. It’s light enough to not overwork their stomachs, but still filling. Then there’s pasta and steak and vegetables, all just waiting for him to turn on the oven and boil the water. Claudio enjoys cooking, even if his mama keeps accusing him of sticking to the recipes too much.

 

“You’ve got to be spontaneous, son,” she always says, “throw a little basil in it and leave out the pine nuts if you don’t have them at home. It won’t make that much of a difference. The dish depends on the cook, not the paper!”

 

Claudio grins to himself at the echo of her words, picks up a leaf off the basil plant on his way past, twists it in his fingers so its subtle smell fills his nostrils. He checks his phone and the timestamp on the text message, then the traffic report as an afterthought.

 

Two more hours until Mario comes. Just enough to chop the carrots and check on the chocolate cake in his fridge. The holidays allow them to be more lenient in their diets and Claudio intends to take full advantage.

 

 

 

*

 

 

It’s a little after noon when Claudio hears the buzz from his front gate. Mario’s car glides to a stop next to Claudio’s Audi under the thatched roof of the garage. It’s a classic car, low to the ground, and those are awkward to get out of, but Mario manages it fairly gracefully, reaching out to take Claudio’s offered hand and pulling him into a hug.

 

Mario smells like deodorant and a little like sweat, and Claudio keeps the contact for maybe a second too long. He smiles and it warms Claudio up from the inside. It’s good to see him. He’s dressed all in white, with just a gold chain around his neck. His tank top draws attention to his collarbone and the sharp lines of his arm muscles.

 

“Now that’s a car,” Claudio says, nodding approvingly at the vehicle. Mario drives an Alfa Romeo Spider, as Italian as one gets with classic cars. It’s in mint condition, almost like it’s been sitting in a showroom all this time, but Claudio knows that Mario doesn’t buy sports cars just for them to collect dust in his garage.

 

“It’s good for shorter road trips,” Mario says, pats the side of the car fondly, and opens up the door so Claudio can take a look at the interior.

 

“We should go for a ride sometime,” Claudio says, thoughtfully, running his hand over the smooth seat leather.

 

“Sure,” Mario shrugs. He takes a bag from the back of the car, shakes his head when Claudio offers to help. “You’ve got a nice place.”

 

Claudio grins, watches as he looks around, at the marble columns of the villa he’s bought and remodelled, at the garden that he’s never had to tend to, lush even in the drought.

 

“Did you find it alright? The streets up here are tricky.” Claudio had triple checked the coordinates, just in case, but the GPS could be unreliable and Mario hated getting lost.

 

“No problem,” Mario grins. “Imagine if I had gotten lost and had to ask some locals for directions. They’d beat me up.”

 

“The headlines tomorrow would be ‘Mario Balotelli on his way to Marchisio house to settle old feuds’ and we’d never have a minute of peace.”

 

They both laugh and Claudio leads them up the steps into his thankfully cooler house. Once they get in, Mario sighs happily, toes off his shoes next to Claudio’s sneakers and accepts his slippers with barely any complaint. All in all, a perfect houseguest. The shoes are even lined up. Suspicious.

 

“It’s really fucking hot,” Mario says and Claudio relaxes a bit. Outwardly, Mario seems cool and comfortable, but now he can see there are beads of sweat banding just under his hairline.

 

“It got up to 45 degrees last week,” Claudio says and Mario whistles, shakes his head. Claudio motions him to the kitchen, starts pulling out the lunch ingredients from the fridge, while Mario excuses himself to the bathroom.

 

They eat lunch at the breakfast nook instead of the big dining room, because it’s cozier and Claudio can subtly press their knees together under the table. He likes the way their knees knock together and the way Mario pokes him in the shin when he wants attention.

 

Mario eats carefully and with appetite. He’s usually a messy eater and it’s obvious that’s he’s trying very hard to be polite, though he relaxes a little when he sees Claudio using his fingers to pull apart the mozzarella.

 

Claudio gets a little distracted watching him. The tomato juices have turned his lips shiny and inviting, and the small sound of delight he makes when he bites into the crackly homemade bread has Claudio grinning.

 

“You’re not going to eat your last piece of mozzarella?” Mario asks, innocently, and then swipes it off Claudio’s plate in a smooth move without even waiting for an answer. He smiles at him after, all mischief, and Claudio rolls his eyes.

 

They clean up together afterward. Mario hands him the dishes to put in the dishwasher and sweeps the crumbs off the table without being prompted. They make small talk in between; about former teammates, managers, Mario’s dogs and the goldfish Claudio used to have.

 

Being with Mario hasn’t changed at all. It’s easy and complicated all in one, banter quickly turning to something that makes Mario’s eyes shutter, his hands curl into fists. Claudio knows how to defuse him when he gets like that, soft words or quiet, if Mario needs time to stew.

 

Still, there’s something in the way Mario looks at him whenever they touch, something in the way he’s careful to not return it too quickly that tells Claudio that something between them is different. He’s in no rush to find out though. Mario is staying for at least three days.

 

The rest of the afternoon is spent in Claudio’s living room, playing video games. No FIFA though, Mario takes one look at the cover, smiles a little and puts it back in its place. They play Mario Kart instead and Mario insists on playing as Mario. He also gets soundly beaten often than not and throws a tantrum that has Claudio laughing hysterically.

 

When it gets late, they migrate to the kitchen. Most of the food is already prepared in advance, and just needs to be heated up, but the change of venue also signifies a change in mood - Mario sits down at the counter and without the video games as a buffer, his attention is focused solely on Claudio.

 

There’s a bottle of wine on the counter, and Mario pounces on it, announcing that he’ll open it. Claudio hands him the bottle opener, a little skeptically. Gigi always insists on opening all the wine bottles at team dinners, so Claudio doesn’t even know if Mario knows how to do it, or if he’s going to pull up a youtube tutorial on his phone.

 

Mario doesn’t need a tutorial. He opens the bottle smoothly, pours them a little bit in prepared glasses and then pours more when Claudio makes a pleased face and offers his glass. He sees Claudio looking impressed, and frowns at him, but Claudio just grins back over the rim of his glass, which in turn makes Mario giggle.

 

It eases off some of the pressure.

 

Claudio warms up the Bagna cauda on the stove as Mario munches on the raw peppers and roasted cauliflower laid out on the counter. The dish is as traditional as it gets, though consuming it in the middle of high summer might have gotten Claudio a scolding from his grandmother. But it’s got the benefit of being able to eat it with your fingers, dipping the vegetables into the hot dip.

 

Claudio takes the initiative, offers the pepper up to Mario with a nervous knot in his stomach. Mario tilts his head to the side, studying him for a moment, then leans forward to eat it gently off Claudio’s fingers, rather like a big cat enjoying a spot of cream.

 

Claudio blushes at the feel of his lips on the pads on his fingers, the warm heat and the way Mario looks at him from under his eyelashes, reaching for a piece of carrot to offer to Claudio in return.

 

They go back and forth like that for a while, till Claudio’s lips tingle from touches that feel like kisses and their fingers shine with grease.

 

Getting up to throw the ricotta ravioli into boiling water is a welcome respite from the tension rising between them. Mario gets tasked with grating the parmesan and Claudio only turns his back on him for a minute, and by the time he checks on him, there’s a huge pile of grated parmesan in front of him, and the rest of it sticking halfway out of Mario’s mouth.

 

“I guess I’ll just abandon the rest of dinner and we’ll just eat that,” Claudio says, wryly. Mario grins at him with his mouth full of cheese.

 

“What are you talking about,” he says, “this is only for me!”

 

Claudio finally wrestles the parmesan away from him so he can sprinkle it over the spinach ricotta ravioli, all slathered in butter and sage, just like his mother taught him. Mario makes appreciative noises as he eats, and the mood is playful instead of charged.

 

“Have you ever made your own pasta?” Mario asks, following the uneven edge of the ravioli with his fork. Claudio buys them at the market, from a young woman who owns a farm just outside the city. She always wears her Juve jersey and doesn’t mind delivering.

 

“I have, with my grandmother,” Claudio says, sitting back with his wine, “she would roll the dough out with a rolling pin and shape them all by hand. My dad bought her a pasta machine once, you know, the one where you just put the dough in and turn a handle until it flattens?” he waits for Mario to nod, before continuing, “She turned it into a wooden spoon holder. Never used it.”

 

Mario laughs. He holds his wine glass very delicately, Claudio notices, cradling the red wine in his palm and setting it down so carefully that the liquid barely moves.

 

“Were you good at it? Making pasta?”

 

“Ehh,” Claudio shrugs, grins, “not as good as I’m at set pieces.”

 

Mario snorts, gestures at his empty plate. “Good thing you didn’t make these then.”

 

“Hey!”

 

There’s a beat of quiet as they both drink. Claudio is on his second glass, Mario on his third.

 

“I never knew my grandmother,” Mario says, thoughtfully, and Claudio immediately goes on high alert. “I have four sets, and I never knew any of them, isn’t that weird?”

 

“Not that weird.”

 

“My adoptive parents got me pretty late,” Mario continues, staring somewhere just off to Claudio’s left, “and their parents died early. I don’t know if they would have liked me, anyway. My dad’s family is…” he makes a hand gesture, “...you know.”

 

Claudio nods to acknowledge the unspoken sentiment, of a disease always boiling under the surface of his countrymen, of brown uniforms burned to hide the evidence, but clinging still to some people, buried just underneath their skin.

 

“My grandmother would like you,” he says instead, and Mario’s gaze snaps back into focus.

 

“Really?” he asks, and something in Claudio’s heart clenches at how hopeful he sounds.

 

She would, Claudio thinks. She’d take one look at Mario and see through the rumors and the accusations, to the heart beneath. And then she’d try to feed him.

 

“Yeah,” he says, “we could go visit her, when you come up again. Help her make some pasta.”

 

Mario nods, smiles, with just the edge of something fragile, and Claudio realizes that he’s just implicitly said that Mario is invited again, that he wants a repeat of this, whatever it is between them that’s more than teammates.

 

Claudio avoids the oncoming awkward moment by collecting their plates, turning the heat off the Brasato al Barolo before it burns and ladling it into bowls. His housekeeper made it for him, a labour of love and many hours of slow cooking. He wasn’t sure about the other things, but this he knows is something Mario loves.

 

And he’s right, from the way Mario lights up when he places the bowl in front of him.

 

“This very good,” he says, through a full mouth, “but my mom makes it better.”

 

It’s so Italian, it makes Claudio laugh.

 

They sink into silence as they eat, but it’s not tense or uncomfortable. Claudio moves his legs under the table, accidentally presses his bare foot against Mario’s ankle and then leaves it there, because Mario doesn’t move away and the warmth of his skin is comfortable.

 

He doesn’t want dinner to end yet.

 

“I have Bonet for after this,” Claudio says, a little hesitatingly, looking at the slew of plates and bowls they’ve already gone through.

 

Mario blinks at him. “We’re going to die if we eat it after all that,” he says, completely serious. Bonet is a cake packed with chocolate and amaretto, and it’s delicious and glorious, but after all they’ve eaten it might actually kill them.

 

“I have some strawberries in the fridge,” Claudio decides, “and,” he lowers his voice, “whipped cream.”

 

“Why are you whispering?”

 

“It’s pre-whipped cream. In a can. My mama would kill me if she knew.”

 

Mario starts laughing, and Claudio grins.

 

They end up eating the strawberries on the counter, Mario portioning out the whipped cream, mostly into his mouth, but also onto Claudio’s strawberries after he kicks him for it. It’s fun, and friendly, but it’s not like anything Claudio had envisioned for the evening.

 

After most of the strawberries get eaten, they drift into silence. Claudio watches Mario’s profile, while Mario seems distracted by the view from Claudio’s patio door, the glass with his drink pressing to his lips, as if mid-drink.

 

“So-” Claudio starts.

 

“You know, I’m pretty tired,” Mario says, unexpectedly. “I think I’d like to go to bed if that’s okay with you?”

 

There’s no hint of invitation in his voice, as he looks at Claudio expectantly.

 

“Sure,” Claudio says, swallowing his confusion, “the guest room is all set up for you. I’ll show you where the towels are.”

 

Mario is quiet on the way up the stairs, steps almost soundless on Claudio’s wooden floors. Claudio shows him to the big guest bathroom, with its polished handles and old porcelain, and the clawfoot tub that’s too small for him to fit into.

 

Mario would have fit in a lot better in the master bathroom. It’s a lot more modern, with a huge shower and marble surfaces, but this one stayed as it was when he bought the house and Mario looks out of place somehow, touching his fingers to the edge of the tub.

 

“I’ll leave you to it,” Claudio says, quietly, and Mario looks up, startled. He smiles at Claudio, just an upturn of his lips, crinkles in the corners of his eyes.

 

“Thank you,” Mario says, and Claudio gets the feeling that he’s thanking him for more than just towels and a place to sleep, but he can’t seem to figure out what the subtext is. “Goodnight.”

 

“Goodnight,” Claudio echoes.

 

It’s about half an hour later that he settles into his own bed, the sheets significantly emptier than he expected them to be. He tosses and turns in the cool cotton, doesn’t find rest until the early hours of the morning.

 

 

 

*

 

 

Claudio ends up oversleeping, which rarely ever happens, but it leaves him feeling lethargic and strangely numb, like he’s left all of his confused emotions to the night.

 

He comes to the living room to find Mario draped across his sofa, eating cereal and watching cartoons. He looks almost childlike, blinking placidly up at Claudio and muttering a greeting around his spoon. Claudio goes to fetch his own bowl, barely feels like pouring in the milk, much less making something more complicated for breakfast.

 

He briefly considers taking the armchair, but Mario pulls his knees up to his chest, which is as good as an invitation, so he sits next to him on the sofa. Mario doesn’t say much, just tucks his bare toes under Claudio’s thigh.

 

It remains their only point of contact for the next couple of hours, as they watch TV. It’s comfortable, and quiet, except for Mario’s occasional snorting laugh.

 

It’s way past noon when Claudio starts feeling restless. The empty bowls on his coffee table irk him, but he doesn’t have the energy to get up and put them away. He doesn’t realize he’s been tugging on the hem of Mario’s sweatpants until Mario moves.

 

“Lets go for a drive,” Claudio says, surprising himself. It suddenly seems like a perfect solution.

 

“Where to?”

 

“Anywhere.”

 

Mario raises an eyebrow and Claudio adds. “Up in the hills. We can find a field somewhere, have a picnic.”

 

Now that it’s out there, it suddenly seems like the best idea and it propels Claudio to his feet.

 

“What if an angry farmer chases us off his field?” Mario asks, but he’s already moving, uncurling from his position and stretching, his shirt riding up to expose a strip of skin that Claudio briefly fixates on before it’s hidden away.

 

Claudio draws himself up, uses his snottiest voice, the one Gigi uses when someone tries to sell him a sub-par bottle of wine. “I’m Claudio Marchisio, who’ll stop me?” he says and Mario bursts out laughing.

 

 

*

 

 

They eat leftovers from dinner sitting in the breakfast nook. They don’t talk much. It doesn’t seem like the space needs very much of it.

 

After, they prepare their picnic. Claudio brings out a picnic basket, old and wicker, smelling sweetly of old wood. He packs away a mostly intact loaf of rustic bread, contemplates the labour that went into it, especially in the heat. A plastic bag of cherry tomatoes goes in next, with a whole stalk of basil, for the aroma.

 

Mario slices the mozzarella into a plastic container. His hands on the knife are sure, confident. He moves onto slicing the cold ham and he remembers to change the knives. Claudio realizes he’s staring, at the flex of tendons and the fluid movement of joints under skin, and he looks away, suddenly flushed.

 

Two bottles of water, and a bag of sweet ripe peaches, and they’re almost ready. Claudio searches the hallway cupboards for a blanket. It’s been awhile since he’s been to a picnic. He doesn’t have the right sort of blanket, and stopping at his family home to borrow one seems frivolous. He finally settles on one that’s thickly knit and dark, and that he doesn’t use very often.

 

He doesn’t think he’s been gone for long, but when he comes back to the living room, blanket in tow, Mario has already changed from his sleep clothes to a pair of perfectly tailored slacks and a pure white T-shirt, deceptively simple, but probably very expensive.

 

Claudio feels caught off guard and underdressed, in his faded sweatpants and his bare feet. He’s pretty sure that his shirt has a hole in the collar.

 

“I’ll get changed,” Claudio says, awkwardly.

 

Mario shrugs. “You don’t have to,” he says, ‘but it’s preferred’ goes unsaid.

 

Claudio puts the blanket in front of him, angry at how upset he suddenly feels.

 

“Can you pack this away? I’ll be right back,” he says, pushing the blanket into Mario’s arms without waiting for a response.

 

 

*

 

 

Claudio puts on his favorite pair of jeans, whitewashed, with holes artfully arranged over the knees, each frayed strand perfectly chosen to portray an air of pretend nonchalance. He puts on a T-shirt too, coral pink and so thin it’s almost see-through.

 

He takes time to brush out his hair, each strand in perfect order, and by the time he’s done, he feels more human. Like he’s put on his armor, even though he doesn’t know why he’d need one in this situation.

 

Mario nods appreciatively when Claudio walks in. He’s sprawled across the sofa again, scrolling through his phone, and his pants somehow haven’t gotten wrinkled at all.

 

“I’m driving,” Mario says, as if there were ever any doubt. Claudio follows him out the house, pausing to lock it and key the alarm into place.

 

The heat is like a punch in the gut, and Claudio practically dives into the car to get away from it.

 

The car is a classic, but the interior is brand new, restored to shine and with a few modern additions. Like the air conditioning, which Claudio really appreciates.

 

He doesn’t usually like the way old cars are restored. The replaced leather often feels plasticy, and the dials too shined, but he likes Mario’s car. It feels not exactly comfortable, because classic cars aren’t meant for comfort. They’re meant for showmanship, and for speed.

 

He can feel the vibrations of the machine through the seat of the car, spreading through his body. Mario revs up the engine at a red light, startling a laugh out of him.

 

They’re already a ways outside the city, but as they go further, the road empties out. It’s a weekday, so everyone is either at work or hiding inside from the heat.

 

Despite the cool air, the glare of the sun makes Claudio’s eyes water, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. He pulls out a pair of sunglasses, sits back to watch Mario drive in peace.

 

As they drive, some of the tortured thoughts from the night before catch up to him.

 

Everyone has their turn ons: Giorgio likes older, bawdy women. Gigi likes girls in stiletto heels, especially when they're wearing nothing else. Paulo likes them pretty and doe eyed, and doesn’t care much about their gender.

 

Mario's never said explicitly what gets his blood hot, but Claudio has seen some of the pictures in the tabloids, some of the women in them. Shapely bosoms, full hips yet slender legs, textbook beauty.

 

When Claudio has time to himself, he puts on porn, but he doesn't have a preference for actors or couplings or acts. He enjoys the sound, so much that his only criteria for videos is that the audio must be high quality stereo. It's the only way he can masturbate, with studio headphones filling his head with throaty moans and wet smacks of flesh. He rarely watches because he sees too much. Faces twisted in performance of pleasure. Dry knees. Fingernails.

 

Where did their shoes go? Is that a cow in the background, innocently grazing on the grass?

 

He’s constantly at risk from distraction from the main attraction, and sometimes the sudden re-realization of it, the cruelty, the inherent violence in it, flags whatever erection he’s managed to bring up.

 

This isn’t to say that he hasn’t had sex before. There are certain expectations of someone in his position. For the most part, he hasn’t minded it. There was a kind of intimacy to it, though not dissimilar to combing his fingers through someone’s hair or kissing them lazily for hours with no real expectations.

 

His ex-girlfriend hadn’t minded that they did it infrequently. They’d drifted apart as people, not because Claudio didn’t fit magazine pictured images of masculinity.

 

Mario swears under his breath, and the harsh sound brings Claudio back to reality. He glances around, to find that they’re driving so slowly because the car is stuck behind a tractor in the narrow country road.

 

The tractor is dragging a cistern more than double its size, and Claudio can just about spot the straw hat of the driver, the russet back of his neck, stoic and unbothered by the heat in the way familiar to farmers everywhere, bred to weather the weather.

 

“What is he even doing out here in this heat?” Mario asks, frowning and fiddling with the air condition.

 

“A honest day’s work,” Claudio says, and Mario snorts, shaking his head.

 

Suddenly, Mario hits the breaks and turns right, off the road and onto a gravel path, cutting the engine. Just beyond a cluster of trees, there’s a small clearing.

 

“This’ll do,” Mario says, in a tone that leaves no room for argument, and turns off the motor.

 

They settle in the shade of some trees, setting down the blanket and the basket. Mario immediately lies down and stretches out, grinning up at Claudio. The tension seems to have been left in the car. They eat as the heat slowly recedes to make room for cooler breezes from the mountains. It gets easier to breathe.

 

After Claudio shakes the last of the crumbs off his shirt, Mario scoots over on the blanket, near enough that he can put his head in Claudio’s lap. He looks up at him, questioning, and Claudio brushes his thumb across his cheek, reassuring.

 

They’ve done this before.

 

He shares a room with Mario most international breaks, and Mario gets like this in the evening sometimes. If they’re watching a movie, he’ll curl up against Claudio’s side, or put his head on his thigh, childlike and trusting. Claudio can never stop the feeling of fondness welling up in his chest, and he doesn’t even try this time.

 

Mario closes his eyes, breathes in deep, and relaxes. Claudio watches the rise and fall of his chest, and emotion threatens to choke him. He opens his mouth with no idea what’ll come out of it.

 

“I don’t like sex,” Claudio says, and it feels like it’s ripped out of him, followed by immediate embarrassment at how straightforward it sounds.

 

Mario doesn’t react. Breathes in and out.

 

Claudio babbles. “It’s not you, or anyone really. I think I’ve just never really wanted it, but I thought I was supposed to offer. I owed you-”

 

“You don’t owe me anything,” Mario cuts in. His eyes are still closed, his breathing still even, and he’s a warm and heavy weight on Claudio’s thighs.

 

“I thought…” Claudio trails off, helplessly. He doesn’t know what he thought. He doesn’t know what he wants, just what he doesn’t and how that defines him.

 

Mario opens his eyes. “Me too,” he says.

 

“You what?”

 

“I’ve never wanted it,” Mario says, and the corners of his mouth curl up in a sudden smile.

 

“Oh,” Claudio says, “never?”

 

Mario shrugs. Claudio feels the movement on his skin. “Sometimes,” Mario says, then turning shyer, “when I fall in love. That’s when I want it, with that person.”

 

“Do you want it with me?” Claudio asks, before he even thinks through the implications.

 

Mario smiles a little and closes his eyes, settling more comfortably into Claudio’s lap.

 

By the time they rise and clean up, it’s cooled down further, and Claudio can leave his sunglasses hanging off his shirt.

 

“We could take the top off,” Mario says thoughtfully, looking at the car.

 

So they do, rolling down the material manually under Mario’s directions.

 

There isn’t any farmers on the country road for their way back, and Mario sets a leisurely pace that lets Claudio enjoy the light breeze through his hair. Late afternoon has faded into early evening, and the horizon is painted in various shades of pink and yellow, the fading sunlight reflecting off the mountains in the distance. There’s a break in the trees and Turin comes into view, the imposing silhouette of the Mole Antonelliana stark against the skyline.

 

Turin’s particular brand of classic and modern is as familiar as Claudio’s reflection in the mirror. Calm settles like a blanket over his chest, his anxiety forgotten. He glances over at Mario, finds him mouthing along to a song on the radio, his fingers tapping on the steering wheel, and he’s suddenly so fond of him it hurts.

 

 

 

*

 

The house is cool and quiet as they enter. Claudio leaves his shoes behind, walks barefooted across the floor to the kitchen, enjoying the coolness of the tile on the soles of his feet. He lays out the wicker basket on the counter and starts cleaning up.

 

Mario comes up behind him soundlessly, touching his elbow gently to get his attention. Claudio startles, but doesn’t turn around.

 

“I’m going to shower,” he says, quietly, and Claudio nods.

 

“You can take the master bathroom,” Claudio says, “it’s closer. The towels are under the sink.”

 

“Okay,” Mario says, then leans forward unexpectedly, presses a kiss to the nape of Claudio’s neck before he disappears.

 

Claudio stays still for a long moment, staring blankly at the empty plastic boxes, before he turns and follows.

 

 

*

 

 

The door to the master bathroom is ajar.

 

Claudio stares at it blankly for a few seconds, before he registers the sound of a running shower and flushes. Involuntarily, he takes a step towards it, then stops. He’s just going to close it, he reasons with himself. So Mario won’t get cold. But when he reaches the door knob, he pushes rather than pulls.

 

And Claudio is willing to admit that he doesn’t understand Mario something like 95 percent of the time, but this time, their eyes meet across the room, and he gets it.

 

Claudio shuts the door behind him with a decisive click, leaving them in silence broken only by the sound of the shower. He undresses methodically. Jeans, folded and put on top of the laundry basket, T-shirt, hung up, and underwear, thrown into the dirty laundry.

 

He looks up, catches Mario watching. Claudio straightens up under his gaze, feeling comfortable in his nudity. It’s just bodies. The back of his knees is no more erotic than his testicles, hanging full and heavy between his legs.

 

Mario slides the shower door open and the sound of the water hitting tile grows louder.

 

It really is a mammoth of a shower, big enough to fit five people. But Claudio stands close to Mario when he steps in, reaches out so Mario can give him the bar of soap he’s holding. It’s Claudio’s preferred brand. Mario will smell like him after this and the thought makes his breathing hitch.

 

Claudio rubs the bar between his hands, touches his soapy hands to Mario’s shoulders, kneading the tense muscle there for a moment, before moving on, to the dip of his collarbone and down his chest, through the sparse chest hair and down to his belly button. He gently directs Mario to turn around, traces the powerful muscles of his back, lays his hands on Mario’s pelvis, just to feel the bone there, underneath the skin.

 

Mario turns to face him on shaky legs, and Claudio puts his palms on his hips to steady him.

 

They stand like that, staring at each other, water beating down on their bodies. The steam has clouded the transparent panels with condensation, creating an enclosed space. An illusion that they’re the only two people in the world. The steam is making it harder to breathe, each indrawn breath carrying the scent of the soap. Mario’s face is soft and strangely vulnerable in the muted light.

 

Claudio drops to his knees in one graceful motion and Mario’s gasp is louder than the sound of the water.

 

Claudio starts at his ankles, touches the paler scars of tackles past, moves up to his calves, the powerful muscle flexing under his hands. He pays special attention to the spot behind Mario’s knee, fascinated with how it makes Mario giggle but not pull away. Then up his thighs, and over the curve of his hipbone. There, Claudio stops.

 

Mario is hanging at half-mast, and it would be so easy to take him in hand and bring him all the way hard, taking an invitation that hasn’t been extended, and probably throwing away something that could be rooted in the truth, for once.

 

He touches Mario’s cock, gently washing it, his touch almost clinical, then lets his hands resettle on his hips.

 

Mario lets out a sound, almost a sob, and reaches down to grab under Claudio’s armpits, hauling him to his feet and into his arms.

 

It’s not until Mario’s arms clasp around him that Claudio realizes how hard he’s shaking, how they both are, like two leaves blown off a tree by the wind, trying to cling to each other in the absence of the only home they’ve ever known.

 

The hot water is falling over them, muffling all the sounds and Claudio’s knees hurt, the blood flowing back into his feet with pins and needles, and he holds Mario close, because it feels like letting go might mean falling apart.

 

 

 

*

 

 

By the time they get out of the shower, the water’s turned freezing, and they’re both shivering as Claudio pulls out the towels out from under the sink. They’re big and fluffy, and he wraps Mario up tight before taking one for himself.

 

Claudio’s hair is wet and it deposits cold droplets down his neck. Mario ambushes him with a towel, throws it over Claudio’s head and rubs vigorously until Claudio is laughing.

 

They don’t even talk about sleeping in the same bed, Claudio just tugs on Mario’s wrist until he follows him between the sheets. They’re both still naked and the cotton sheets feel strange against his body, Mario’s warm skin a comforting counterpoint.

 

They lie like that, facing each other in Claudio’s bed, and he’s surprised at how comfortable he feels just with watching Mario’s face, the miniscule movements of his facial muscles. Mario smiles and Claudio smiles back.

 

They kiss.

 

It’s soft, chaste even, less touching lips and more breathing the same air. Claudio can feel where Mario’s mouth is upturned in a smile, and he presses another kiss to the corner of it, right where his lips are curved upward.

 

And that’s it. There’s no anxiety, no expectation. Just their two bodies, settling into sleep.

 

Mario turns onto his stomach, curls his arms in front of him, under the pillow. Claudio’s seen him asleep a couple of dozen times, on buses and airplanes, but it wasn’t like this. He didn’t have to seriously consider how to fit himself around Mario’s body into something comfortable.

 

In the end, he lays on his side, throwing an arm around Mario’s ribs, and tucking his face against his shoulder. Mario is already asleep, his snores muffled by the pillow. Claudio closes his eyes, and presses a kiss to the tip of his shoulder, drifting into sleep that’s peaceful and dreamless.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is probably the most personal project I've ever shared, because it helped me explore and eventually accept my sexual identity. If you recognized yourself anywhere in the above text, and if you need support or someone to talk to, you can find me on [tumblr](https://neyvenger.tumblr.com/) or you can comment on this fic. I'll be happy to talk.
> 
> Notes:  
> \- the year that Mario was in competition for the FIFA cover in Italy, El Sharaawy got it instead  
> \- the food they're eating is traditional Piemontese. Bagna Cauda is a sort of dip that you dip vegetables and bread in, Brasato al Barolo is a slow cooked meat dish, and Bonet is a rich chocolate cake. all of these are traditional for winter, not summer, but eh. Artistic licence.  
> \- brown uniforms were worn by the fascists  
> \- [Alfa Romeo Spider](https://www.google.si/search?q=alfa+romeo+spider&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwi5zIWQhNrUAhXqK8AKHd_qB1cQ_AUICigB&biw=1366&bih=662)  
> \- also keep in mind that everyone on the ace spectrum has different experiences - this was inspired by mine and by people I talked to. If yours is different, that's completely alright.
> 
> Thanks for reading, I really appreciate it <3


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